


transfer your tragedy

by magique



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Gen, pre-Derek/Stiles - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:32:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magique/pseuds/magique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Mostly to be a dick, but also because he genuinely wants to know, Stiles asks, “You have a plan, right? Or, like, you’re coming up with one now? Stewing it up?” He makes a vague stirring-the-pot sort of gesture and adds, “Formulating,” dragging each syllable out to an agonisingly slow death. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	transfer your tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> I had to write a piece that used three types of logical fallacies for a class a couple of months ago and, because all I had on the brain at the time was Teen Wolf, I had to actually use Stiles and Derek initially to come up with anything. This is different from that version and from the one I submitted, both of which just...stopped. I was in the mood today so I came back and gave this an end, so. Posting. 
> 
> Set in an AU I just made up on the spot where Stiles and Derek are both human, and somehow end up working together to bring down criminal mastermind Kate Argent who, early in her criminal career, burnt Derek's home to the ground and killed the majority of his family (in the same circumstances as canon, but without the werewolf excuse) just for kicks. 
> 
> The title is a paraphrased lyric from _Wolf Like Me_ by TV on the Radio.

Stiles can feel his pulse in his throat, in his wrists and his fingertips and his temples. He can feel his heart beating so hard he can hear it, so hard it feels like it’ll beat right out of his chest. His breaths are so loud to his own ears that surely Derek can hear them too, even as he paces back and forth across the tiles of the one room in Stiles’ house with a lock on the door. 

And if Derek can hear his breathing and his heart beating and isn’t doing anything about it, then he can’t _really_ mind if Stiles goes to town with his voice, can he? Because keeping the verbal diarrhoea as an internal monologue is making his leg jitter and his foot tap a staccato rhythm against the base of the bathtub—which Derek can probably hear too, so. 

So: “Holy shit, we’re going to die,” he blabs. “He’s going to get in here and then he’s probably going to torture us—he looked like he’d be into that—for hours and hours and hours and then kill you first so he can take his time with me and this is _terrible_ , Derek, _do something_.” 

Derek stares at him in that scowly sort of way he has for a while and he opens his mouth and Stiles braces himself for something actually helpful, but Derek just says, “Stiles, shut up,” like he can’t believe he has to spend his last moments alive with some stupid, ADHD kid, like if he could swap Stiles out for anyone else he would do it in a heartbeat. 

Stiles can relate. Apart from the completely unprovoked mental name-calling, Stiles can _totally relate_. Stiles would really rather not have Derek’s cranky, judgemental face be the last thing he sees. Although, Derek’s cranky, judgemental face is a step up from the face of Crazy Dude of Origins Unknown, who’s probably making himself at home in Stiles’ home, finding his dad’s secret stashes of booze and weaponry while he waits for Stiles and Derek to get complacent enough to come out. 

Derek glares some more and, satisfied that Stiles has taken his constructive criticism on board, goes back to pacing. 

Stiles is the only reason they’re locked up safely in the bathroom right now, so he should be more grateful. Actually, Stiles is surprised locking themselves in a bathroom was enough, even after Derek had dragged the whole cabinet in front of the door, considering, like, the whole psychopathic axe murderer (or, like, whatever his implement of choice is) issue, but he’ll take whatever bones they happen to get thrown. He’s not _Derek_. 

Mostly to be a dick, but also because he genuinely wants to know, Stiles asks, “You have a plan, right? Or, like, you’re coming up with one now? Stewing it up?” He makes a vague stirring-the-pot sort of gesture and adds, “Formulating,” dragging each syllable out to an agonisingly slow death. 

Which is a horrible analogy to use right now. _Great job, Stiles_ , he thinks, _think about dying some more; that will help_. 

“Stiles,” Derek says, sharper, and when Stiles meets his eyes, Derek has stopped his pacing and is back to the frankly unnerving glaring. “Calm down. Deep breaths.” He enunciates each word with precision, and he sounds like he knows what he’s doing at least, so Stiles nods frantically and obeys. 

And, hey, it does help a little. It doesn’t help with the adrenaline pounding through his ears, but it definitely staves off the beginnings of a panic attack. 

And then Derek says, “You can fit through that window,” like the worst kind of person. 

Stiles stares at Derek for a while, then at the tiny, rectangular window positioned above the toilet and then back at Derek again for good measure. “Um, no. When I was _nine_ , I fit through that window.” 

“You’ll fit,” Derek insists. “And you can go for help.” 

“No,” says Stiles. “No and no and, oh, I don’t know, maybe _no_. And, hey, why should _I_ go for help? It’s your dumb idea.” 

“You’re younger, smaller and weaker,” Derek says, because, at heart, he stereotypes with the best of them. “I’d stand a better chance if he got in here.” 

There is—Stiles would say that there’s nothing to say to such blatant typecasting, but he is Stiles, so there is _everything_ to say to that. “Are you kidding me? Let me explain to you all the reasons why you are being so completely, painfully stupid and need my enormous brain to survive!” 

Derek looks pained in a way that’s verging on constipated (but handsome, always handsome, fuck Derek, man), but he should know better than to go in against a Stilinski when _death_ is on the line. 

“First of all,” Stile exclaims, holding up a finger, and he has to scramble to his feet so he can make an appropriately dramatic figure doing this, “I can say with absolute certainty that I’ll get stuck, because I have _tried_ and Dad had to call the fire department and then he grounded me for the next, like, _year_ as if the humiliation wasn’t punishment enough. Secondly,” he continues, raising another finger, “even if I _could_ get out, there is, like, a _monster_ out there who would see or hear or probably frigging _smell me_!” 

“He wouldn’t go after you,” Derek interrupts, but he doesn’t sound entirely sure of himself now. 

“You were trying to use me as bait,” Stiles accuses. He doesn’t believe it, because he and Derek might not particularly like each other, but they have a weird sort of stalemate thing going on that’s almost like being friends. 

Derek glowers. He doesn’t deny it, but Derek aspires to be the man of fewest words and prefers to communicate via easily misinterpreted silence. In contrast, Stiles enjoys words. A lot. He loves words even; they’re great. Sometimes they fuck him over because they can be harsh, fickle mistresses, but on the whole? Tick of approval from Stiles. Words. Yeah, they’re cool. He told Derek this once, a while ago now, and was met with resounding silence, pursed lipped frustration, and the resounding impression that he was getting increasingly close to earning a black eye. (To be fair, Stiles can get pretty annoying when you’re stuck in a car with him for hours on end. Stiles would know; he’s stuck with himself _forever_ and sometimes _he_ even gets annoyed.) 

Really, more likely, Derek is trying to get all up in that self-sacrificing business—get Stiles out, distract the murdery dude long enough for him to get away, maybe hopefully kill him before he kills Derek if it comes to that. Which, you know, maybe a couple months ago, Stiles would have been _down_ with, but. Stalemate-friendship-thing? Kinda cramps his escaping-to-safety style or whatever. 

Stiles stares Derek down. He’s still not entirely sure why Derek lets him do it sometimes, because it probably wouldn’t take _that_ much effort to scare/beat Stiles into compliance when you’ve got muscles and a past like Derek, but Derek does and Stiles? Remember how he doesn’t scorn thrown bones or look too closely at horses’ mouths? Yeah. 

“ _I_ am the plans guy of this partnership,” Stiles tells Derek loftily, “and it would be nice if you stopped forgetting it.” 

“Partnership,” Derek repeats, sort of scornfully, like Stiles isn’t the guy who singlehandedly got Derek cleared of all charges in his sister’s murder. Like they haven’t been an awesome amateur private investigator type team for _months_ trying to find unequivocal proof that Kate Argent killed— 

“Oh my god,” Stiles realises, interrupting Derek grumbling, “Five minutes ago you were asking—”. Stiles waves his hands at Derek to shush him properly and exclaims, “This guy is totally one of Kate’s lackeys, isn’t he? It makes so much sense!” 

Derek just gives him the blank scowl that means he doesn’t really follow Stiles’ train of thought but he’s too stubborn to admit it. 

“Don’t you get it?” Stiles says, trying to shout and whisper all at once. “It means we’re _close_. It means something we dug up is actually dangerous for her.” 

Derek’s expression goes slack and open, eyes wide. “Everything we have is out there, Stiles.” 

“Oh, mother _fucker_ ,” Stiles swears. “We’ve gotta—we’ve got to _do something_. We could take him, right? Do you think?” 

“He’s got a gun,” Derek says. “If he’s found your dad’s spare, he’s got two.” 

He looks so defeated that it makes something rumble in Stiles’ chest. “But—” 

“Give it up, Stiles,” Derek says. He droops against the tiled wall and sighs. “He’s probably long gone with every scrap of evidence we had.” 

“We can get it all again! We can get _more_ and we can hide it better this time,” Stiles promises. “We’ll get her. We _will_.” 

Stiles crouches in front of Derek and sticks out his hand. “Derek,” he says, very seriously, “take my pinky.” 

Derek’s eyebrows lift comically high. “Stiles,” he says, very seriously, “what the fuck are you doing?” 

Stiles just shakes his hand, pinky finger outstretched into Derek’s personal space, until Derek grudgingly curls his own pinky around it. 

“A pinky promise is an unbreakable _vow_ , Derek,” Stiles tells him. “We are going to catch Kate Argent and we are going to make her _pay_. Okay?” 

Derek still looks sceptical and beaten, but his mouth quirks into that not-smile that always makes his eyes look unfathomably green. “Okay,” he says. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm whatevermortal on [tumblr](http://whatevermortal.tumblr.com/) & also [dreamwidth](http://whatevermortal.dreamwidth.org/) and i _always_ want new fandom buddies on both yo


End file.
